Recollection
by Gemini Star01
Summary: A natural disaster has left the American continent in ruin. Now, America uses shared dreaming technology to unlock the memories his mind has suppressed, in hopes that they will lead him to the missing Canada.   Inspired by the movie "Inception."
1. The Beginnings of a Dream

Guess what folks? I'm writing another mind fuck! If you're surprised, you don't know me well enough. This time, the recipe is simple: take one part Inception, one part post-disaster movie and a pinch of my weird imagination, and you get this fic.

I promise the above statement will make sense by the end of this. Really.

_**Disclaimer: **__I don't own Hetalia or any of the prompts and themes I'm borrowing from the movie "Inception." I'm just walking proof that an idea is the most intrepid parasite. Enjoy._

**Recollection**

**Chapter One: The Beginnings of a Dream**

England swore under his breath, rubbed his gloved hands together and hunkered further into the warmth of his thermal-insulated coat. He kicked a few inches of snow from the toes of his boots and glared up at the swirling, dark gray mass of sky above him. According to all the clocks, it was almost noon. If it hadn't been for the electric lamps illuminating their camp, he wouldn't have been able to see his own hands.

A silver canister broke into his view, held by a hand wrapped in the warmest, most fashionable blue gloves that money could buy. England knew that they belonged to France before the man's voice even reached his ears. "Your morning tea, mon cher."

England accepted the offering with a gruff thanks, unscrewing the top and taking a long gulp. It warmed him all the way down and he allowed himself a small sigh of satisfaction before getting down to business. "Did the scouts find…anything last night?"

"Non."

"I see. How far in are we at this point?"

Francis dug a hand-held computer from his coat pocket and tapped through the GPS that tracked their course. The connection was slow now, due to the ash, but it did work in time. "We're almost through this part of Alberta. We'll reach British Columbia soon."

"Good, good," England muttered, doing the calculations in his head. "As long as we stay south, we'll find them soon enough. Those boys know this land too well to go north in such ridiculous weather."

France put the pocket computer away, but his motions were slower than before, and there was a distinct air of anxiety in his features. "It's been three months," he said, pain lacing his tone.

England closed his eyes. "I know. We'll find them."

Neither of them voiced the very real possibility that what he was saying was lie.

England finished off his tea, dumped the remaining leaves into the snow and turned away with a sigh. "If we've covered this area, we'll have to pack up and move on."

"Oui," said France with a nod, already turning towards the main tent of their basecamp. "I'll inform the captain and we'll begin organizing the equipment for transfer."

"Right, right." England blew on his hands and rubbed them together, spreading some small bit of warmth across his aching joints. "They all know the drill. I'll start plotting a new course east, and then…"

A whistle blared from the edge of the camp, bringing both nations to apt attention. That was the signal for approaching figures not of their camp – survivors!

England and France moved practically as one, racing to the black hummer that served as a guard post on this side of the camp. England reached the ladder first and swung up to the roof, bounding to the look-out's side. "What is it, man?"

"See for yourself, sir," said the volunteer, handing England his binoculars and pointing. England brought the field glasses to his eyes and peered out into the darkness and snow. There was indeed a figure stumbling towards them in the gloom, without a light or supplies; but even from this distance, England recognized iconic brown leather and patches of a very distinctive and familiar flight jacket.

England's heart leapt and, in the next motion, he was snatching a torch and leaping from the Hummer and rolling into the thick snow absorb the shock of his fall.

"Mon Dieu!" France yelped, darting around the car. "England, what on earth are you –"

"It's America!" England said, rolling to his feet and shooting across the field without any further attempt at explanation. A second later, France was on his tail, so they were just about even when they finally reached America.

The boy was a mess. His precious jacket was bloodstained, and he didn't wear it so much as he had it wrapped around both shoulders like a blanket. His shirt and pants were both worn and ripped, showing the emaciated form beneath. His hair had been allowed to grow almost to his shoulders and his glasses were cracked. He stumbled across the snow as though he couldn't feel his own feet. Perhaps he couldn't – the weather was still dreadfully cold.

When he finally laid eyes on England, the last bit of his resolve seemed to die and he collapsed. He would have tumbled into the snow had England and France not leapt forward to catch him, their arms forming a net that snagged him as easily as a fish in a steam.

"America!" England gasped, clutching a form that was much, much smaller than the strong young man he remembered. "America, don't you dare go to sleep."

America's eyes hung heavy, but still open – at least a crack. He struggled and failed to lift his head, mumbling so low that the others could barely hear, "C'nada…"

France shifted to increase his share of the support and scanned the surrounding snow, but there was no sign of anyone beyond their camp. "Where is Canada? I don't see him anywhere."

England slung America's arm over his shoulder and knelt to cup the younger nation's face in his hands. The cheeks were so cold and brittle he was afraid they might crumble in his grasp. "America, look at me. Don't go sleep! Listen, you have to tell us. Where is your brother? Tell us, America!"

"Mm," America groaned, eyes falling and strength failing. "'M…Can…Canada…"

"Yes," England said, giving his cheek a few quick taps. "You have to tell us. Where is Canada?"

But that was a question that would never be answered.

America watched the memory from a distance, unseen by the shades of his past like Scrooge within the grasp of his first Christmas ghost. It was amazing how completely his subconscious had preserved this memory when he himself had been barely aware at the time. Sure, some of it had been pieced together through the group Dreams, fitting in the views of England and France like a four-dimensional puzzle; but the rest – the cold, the pain, the muddled confusion – that was all his own.

He willed the scene to stop and slipped closer to observe himself as he had once been. A small part of him still cringed with the memory of the pain – the black eye that had blinded him, the cracked rib, the sensitive bone in the center of his hand that had been snapped completely in twain – coupled with the haunting ache of starvation from weeks alone in the wilderness. He focused on each one, trying to force his memory of the violence to the surface. They wouldn't come.

"Tch," he muttered to himself, stepping away from the scene. He willed time to flow in reverse and it did, this time focusing on his former self as he stumbled through the barren waste. America floated along with him, panning across the ice, snow and time as far as he could go.

But the result was always the same. All too soon, reality flickered around him, flickering like a broken video tape before starting up again from the beginning. America swore under his breath and tried to push it further, but all that earned him was a searing pain between his temples and ears.

A soft sound reached his ears from nowhere: extended single tones, all the same note and sound, with long stretches of silence between each. It was disorienting, unnerving. That was, of course, the point. It was an alarm.

It was to wake up.

**( - )**

America opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.

It was a very familiar motion. All of his memories began with waking now. Literally; waking was the first thing he'd done after England and France had gotten him to a decent hospital after dragging him from the wild so long ago. Everything before that moment, all of his memories, his experiences, his life, were left as a shapeless blur with the occasional glimpse of clarity, like driving in a fog.

It had taken him thirty years to piece his mind back together, one memory at a time. It still wasn't complete. Not yet. And especially not if he kept getting stuck in that one.

"Good morning."

America rolled his head to the side. England was sitting in the cheap hotel armchair beside his bed with his legs crossed at the knee, flipping through a newspaper with one hand and sipping tea with the other. Behind him, the curtains were slightly drawn, giving them a lovely view of Rome covered, as most of the world now was, in snow.

"Morning," America said with a yawn, sitting up and pulling the PASIV's IV from his arm. The machine, which rested in a silver briefcase on the bed beside him, silenced its beeps and began to run through its shut-down sequence.

Arthur frowned at the device over his tea cup. "You've reached the point where you can't dream without it, haven't you?"

America did not respond. It was true; the long you used the miracle of the Portable Automated Somnacin IntraVenous Device, the less you were capable of conjuring dreams on your own. Even nations were not immune to its lasting effects.

"I'm starting to worry about you," England said softly, placing his newspaper and tea cup on the bed stand. "You have no idea what you could be doing to yourself, to your subconscious, to your mind."

America laughed humorlessly, folding the PASIV's wires back into their proper compartments. "It can't be any worse than what my mind has already done to me."

England bit his lip and averted his gaze. Nobody knew how or why America's memories had suddenly decided to bury themselves within the depths of his subconscious. Not even the greatest doctors and psychologists in the world could uncover them. If it hadn't been for the Dreams, they would have been written off as gone long, long ago.

"It's been thirty years, Alfred," the Englishman said in a tone barely above a whisper. "If you haven't been able to fix it in this time, then maybe…wouldn't it be best to just stay the way you are now?"

"You know I can't do that," America said, closing the PASIV's case with a definitive _click_. "I still haven't found him."

England closed his eyes.

It had been thirty years since the eruption of the Yellowstone Caldara had devastated the North American continent, torn apart their western regions, scattered their governments and plunged the world into a new Ice Age. Even though they'd been half-expecting the event for the last century – every scientist in the world knew that the super-volcano of Yellowstone was well overdue– it had taken the world by surprise.

What's more, it had the poor luck to blow while America and Canada were in the northern brother's western regions for their yearly "brotherly bonding" fishing trip. America had stumbled from the wilderness three months later, broken, blood-stained and alone, with only passing recollection of the centuries that had come before. Canada had not been seen since.

"Lad," England said, as though every word were laced with poison. "You have to accept this. Canada's gone."

"He's not."

"There's been no sign of him in three decades. The only possible answer is that he's –"

America whirled around, eyes flashing angrily in the hotel's pale light. "He's _not_ dead."

The sound echoed even within the thick plaster. England gripped his tea cup a bit more tightly.

America took a deep breath and forced his frazzled nerves to calm. He kept his gaze focused on his former guardian, keeping the intensity and determination, but not the accusation. "Canada...Matt's not dead. He can't be. I know if he was. You _know_ I would know. He has to be alive. He's just…lost."

England sighed, setting his tea cup and saucer on the bedside table. "I understand. But Alfred, we've tried to reach those memories so many times. What if they're not even there?"

"They're there," America insisted, with the same unyielding certainty that guaranteed his brother's continued existence. "We can dig them out. We just need to go deeper."

England's large brows knotted together in confusion. "But we've already tried layering the dreams."

"We've gone to layer two," America said, musing out loud. Just thinking of the technique, of how deeply reality and dreams could be blurred, brought a tinge of doubt into his mind. He drew his talisman – an extra-large double-headed coin weighted to favor Washington over the portrait of Lincoln that lay opposite – and flipped it. The weight was just as he remembered. "We've tried the Dream within the Dream. So we need to go further – a dream, within a dream, within a dream."

England stood so suddenly that his tea cup was nearly thrown from the bed stand, but he caught it at the last moment. "You can't be serious! You know how dangerous that is!"

"It's a high-risk gamble," America agreed, pocketing the coin. "But that's why it will work, especially if we use the earlier levels as triggers on the way down. We just have to do it right."

England narrowed his eyes. "And you think you have an Architect who can pull something like that off?"

America was quiet. He turned the coin over and over within his pocket. Then he sighed and let it drop. "Not yet. But I'll find somebody. The best damn Architect there ever was. And then…then we'll get him back."

England sighed, his muscles dropping slack with relief. He straightened his posture and adjusted his tie. "If you say so. Come along now. If you want to get breakfast before the meeting, you'll have to hurry."

"Yeah, I know. Thanks." America smiled, though it was tired and worn, and waved the Brit off. "Gimmie a minute for a quick shower and I'll be right down."

England nodded curtly and stepped out of the room. America entered the bathroom, turned on the hot water and looked at himself in the mirror. As the reflection became more and more clouded with steam, marring the minute difference between them that no one else seemed to notice, he could convince himself that it was Canada gazing back at him from the glass. He wondered if, after all this time, his brother would look as tired as he felt now.

He brushed a hand along the glass, tracing a path as though stroking his brother's cheek. Then he leaned forward and rested his forehead against the mirror, imagining cool skin beneath rather than wet glass.

"I'll find you," he promised, not for the first time. "Whatever it takes, Canada. I will find you."

**( - ) **

The Meetings of the World were not, as many people had assumed, a modern invention. Indeed, they were nearly as old as the concept of nations itself, though admittedly the definition of "World" had a habit of changing from century to century. In the old days they had been infrequent but regular, a once-a-decade chance for the great nations of each continent, particularly Europe, to break their endless torrent of isolation and combat in order to actually connect with their own kind.

Now that modern technology and travel developments had effectively connected the entire world without exception, the meetings were generally annual. It was a relief to most. World Meetings were constant, the one thing in the chaos of their tremulous existence that would remain the same, no matter what economic crises, world wars or natural disasters may be thrown their way. Without such a rock of stability, there was no doubt in anyone's mind that most of the world would have eventually descended into personal insanity.

Not too long ago, America would have been in control here, outlining the latest of his elaborate plans for-the-sake-of-all at the front of the room and making some small effort to keep order, usually without success. But now, though the North American Union was steadily recovering, he was nowhere near his former level of strength and vitality and therefore tended to refrain from the proceedings.

America tried to pay attention, tried to take notes and keep track of what Germany was going on and on about, but when the lunch break was called and he looked at his legal pad, any notes were obscured by the doodles of an elaborate maze. He crumpled it up before England could see. Last thing he needed was for the Brit to add more fuel to his argument against the continued Dream.

The crumpled ball of paper landed in the trash as he dodged France's grope. Once, he would have clipped the Frenchman up the side of the head for that, but at this point he recognized it as a gesture of friendly concern.

He chatted with Japan and Greece during lunch, keeping the small talk mostly on the topic of video games, though during the lulls that were to be expected when eating with these two, he contemplated the possibilities. Japan was his go-to tech guy for PASIV equipment, and Greece wasn't a half-bad Architect, but his designs tended to be lazy and hadn't connected with America well enough to break into the lower levels of memory. Greece was a nice guy, but he needed someone more precise.

When lunch was over, most of the nations headed back into the meeting room, but America lingered outside. His excuse was taking a smoke. In truth, he hadn't smoked since the Second World War; he just needed a bit of quiet time to himself.

He wandered the hotel, flipping his Token coin restlessly. Part of him wished that there were more countries in his neck of the woods capable of hosting these Meeting; ever since the eruption, he got nervous whenever he was away from his continent for too long. The rational side of his mind knew that there was nothing to worry about. The part of him born in dreams begged to differ.

As he turned to head back to the meeting room, his foot thumped against something dense and heavy sitting on the ground. It was a sketchbook, covered in fine brown leather and stamped with a remarkably elaborate coat of arms. He didn't recognize it, but it didn't look particularly Italian, so he figured it must belong to one of the nations. He picked it up and flipped through it until he found a signature.

"Lili Zwingli," he said slowly, pronouncing each syllable with care. "So it's Lichtenstein's. She must have dropped it…"

Out of curiosity, his eyes trailed up to the sketch. They widened and he drew in a gasp.

The meeting was already underway once more when he burst in, the door bouncing off the wall with a bang. Italy, who had been giving a presentation, squeaked and dropped his pointer. A few other easily-startled or half-asleep nations fell out of their chairs. Germany leapt up. "America, what is the meaning of this?"

America ignored him, scanning the gathered nations with frantic sweeps of his eyes. "Liechtenstein?"

The girl lifted her head, blinking in confusion. "Y-Yes, Mister America?"

America crossed the room in a few long strides until he reached the girl, holding her sketchbook outstretched. The leather-bound volume hit the floor and America followed, going down on his knees. He grasped Liechtenstein's hands in both of his own and gazed up at her with wide, almost pleading eyes.

"Please," he begged. "I need you to be my Architect."

_**TBC…**_


	2. The PreJob Part One

_**Disclaimer: **__I don't own Hetalia or any of the prompts and themes I'm borrowing from the movie "Inception." I'm just walking proof that an idea is the most intrepid parasite. Enjoy._

**Recollection**

**Chapter Two: The Pre-Job Part One**

A shot rang through the meeting room.

America jerked his head back, just dodging the bullet as it whizzed past so close that he could feel the heat on his forehead. The bullet buried itself in the wall. Switzerland, his pistol still smoking, was trembling with rage so furiously that a careless observer might have thought he was crying.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded. "You can't just…get away from Liechtenstein!"

"Big brother…" Liechtenstein began, but her words were drowned out by England, who rounded the table and yanked America away by the collar.

"Git!" the Englishman said, dragging the American away. "Are you insane?"

America yanked from his former guardians' grip and went back down to one knee, this time to lift the fallen sketchbook from the ground. "England, look at these designs. They're amazing."

England raised a single eyebrow – which always seemed significantly more impressive for him than most people – and flipped the battered leather notepad open in his hands. Germany groaned, pressing a palm against his forehead. "Is this really the time?"

"Give us a moment, mon cher," France implored, rising from his chair with diplomatic grace.

England scanned the parchment pages, his eyes widened in surprise. They only got larger with every turn. It really was a remarkable journey; page after page of beautiful, intricate maze designs. Some were square, others circular; some inked, some in only pencils; some with large paths, some barely wide enough for a pencil tip; but all were utterly unique and composed with an artistic complexity that even a layman could admire at a glance.

"Remarkable," England said without thinking of the words, flipping back to the beginning and handing the book off to Francis, who was hovering impatiently over his shoulder like a parrot begging for scraps. "Have you ever had any formal training?"

Liechtenstein blushed, shifting in her lace and frills as her wide blue eyes fell to the carpet. "Well, no. I sat in on a class or two, but…"

"She's never been trained," America said, his voice brimming with excitement. "That kind of work, without ever taking a class! She's got a natural talent, England, image how it'll be once she's had a chance to study! She's perfect!"

Switzerland's snarl deepened, cocking his gun again. "What the hell are you going on about, you idiot?"

But still, either because he was indeed an idiot or just so relieved to have finally found what he was looking for, America ignored the raging little blonde and turned his full attention to Liechtenstein once more. He took her hand in both of his – which seemed so large in comparison! – and looked up at her with wide, hopeful eyes like a beau about to propose marriage.

"Liechtenstein…Lili," he began, speaking the name as affectionately as though she were his own sister. "I need you to design me a maze."

"A…A maze?" Liechtenstein said slowly.

"Exactly." America' voice rose steadily in pitch and tempo as he spoke, excitement overtaking everything else. "And you don't have to worry about money or materials or even the laws of physics if you don't want to. Wait until you see it, it's pure creation unleashed. I know you'll love it. And…and it could be the only way for me to see my brother again."

Liechtenstein sucked in a dainty little gasp. "Mister NAU…"

"America," said the young man, already wincing from the abbreviation. Yes, according to all the paperwork and the maps and even the name plate on the meeting tables, he was the North American Union; but he hated to hear the words. That title presumed the worst about his brother, assumed that there was only one brother left to assume that title. But that, he knew, was wrong. He could not, would not believe otherwise.

Liechtenstein seemed to understand. "Mister America…I'm afraid I don't totally understand what you're asking me to do."

"Don't worry. I'll show you."

Switzerland bristled noticeably. Everyone else in the room held their breath.

America sighed, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes again, he looked up at Liechtenstein with his widest, most sincere pleading gaze. "I know it sounds crazy, and I'm doing a horrible job of explaining it, but…please. Doing this is the only chance I have at piecing my memories back together, and that's the only chance I have of finding out where Canada is. Please consider helping me. I just want to see my brother again."

The room was so quiet that a dropped pin might have been just as loud as Switzerland's gun. Then Liechtenstein took a short, shuddering breath and gave America's hand a squeeze.

"I'll do it."

Switzerland nearly dropped his gun. "Lili!"

"Big brother, please," Liechtenstein said, turning to him. She kept her grip on America's hands, grasping them with her own. Her eyes brimmed with tears. "It's so sad. They've been apart all this time. It isn't fair. Family…family ought to be together."

America couldn't hold back anymore. A wide smile spread unsteadily across his face, and then he was on his feet and clasping the girl in a tight, shoulder-straining hug. He was babbling something that may have been a million thank you's or promises that she wouldn't regret it, but it all ran together so badly that nobody could really say for sure.

England and France exchanged a knowing glance that echoed a bit of their own concern. Japan began to scribble some sort of formula notes over the ones he'd been taking for the meeting. Switzerland rounded the table and set about hauling America away from his little sister, despite Liechtenstein's giggling that it was all okay.

Germany just sank into his leather seat at the head of the table and pressed his head into his hands. Someday, some century, he would preside over a world meeting where everything went exactly as planned. Today, however, would not be that day.

**( - )**

"You ever notice that you never remember the beginning of a dream?"

America's question came while Liechtenstein was in mid-sip, so she paused to swallow her warm tea before she answered. "What do you mean?"

America quirked a grin and tapped her tea cup with the spoon that bore the hotel's logo. The three of them – America, Liechtenstein and England – were sitting in the restaurant in the hotel lobby, getting ready for Liechtenstein's first Dream-building crash course. "Think about it. When you wake up from a really good dream, what do you remember? Just bits and pieces, right? The most interesting or bizarre things, the symbols and moments that really stood out and spoke to you, but never a complete story.

"That's because dreams aren't a complete story. They never are. They're non-linear, because that's the way that people think."

Liechtenstein frowned, her lips folding into a pout over the edge of her cup. "But we do think linearly."

"Only when you're thinking about thinking, love," England said simply, stirring a bit of milk into his own fresh cup. "When you're not trying to think, the information comes more sporadically and evolves in its own way."

"Exactly," said America, tapping his spoon against his own plate this time. "And that's just when you're awake. You ever hear that saying that people only use ten percent of their brain?"

Liechtenstein nodded.

"The numbers are a bit funky and vary from person to person, but in general it's a lot truer than you might think, at least when you're awake."

England cleared his throat, as though he didn't quite believe that America could give this explanation without confusing the girl. He wiped the spoon he'd used to stir his tea clean and set it on the pristine white table cloth before he spoke. "When one is conscious, most of the brain is preoccupied with the day-to-day tasks of one's existence: walking, language, recalling names and locations, remembering the tasks of the day, etcetera. Once you've fallen asleep, those aspects become unnecessary, so those parts of your brain are freed up for other tasks. Creative ones. Hence, the creation of dreams."

"Think of dreaming as a way that your brain blows off a little steam," Alfred said brightly, sipping his coke directly from the glass. "But when you think about it, that normal, chaotic sort of dreaming is really a waste of effort. What the Dream lets you do, in addition to sharing the dreamscape with others, is completely control the creative output."

"But why would you want to?" Liechtenstein asked, setting down her tea. "Control your dreams, I mean."

England laughed and leaned across their little table to freshen the girl's cup. "People have been training themselves in lucid dreaming for centuries. Most find it quite empowering. You're not bound by the laws of physics and your only limits are those of your own imagination. As for the shared Dreaming, it was originally developed for therapy work, especially for victims of trauma – one's subconscious tends to be much more honest than oneself, after all – though some unfortunate incidences of individuals with more unsavory goals have limited its use somewhat."

Liechtenstein's delicate blonde eyebrows knitted together in concern. "Um, when you say 'unsavory…'"

"There's a process known as Extraction," America said, interrupting her question, "that recently earned itself a felony charge, especially since the process usually involves kidnapping. It's when a person or groups of people use the PASIV to enter another's mind and steal their secrets. Anything from corporate intel to bank account numbers, you can find them in dreams, if you know the symbols well enough to bring them to mind.

"Then there's Inception, which some countries –" He glanced pointedly at England, who occupied himself with his tea and refused to return the gesture. "– have outlawed preemptively even though it's never been proven to be possible. It's a sort of brainwashing where you plant an idea in someone's mind; but it's all theoretical and hearsay. It did get a lot of lip service after the Fischer corporation break-up, but it's just an urban legend.

"Then there are some folks who use it as a drug; 'Lotus Eaters' as Greece calls them. It's like the best hallucinogen ever. People get so caught up in being able to dream whatever they want that they stop being able to function in the real world. Japan's been having a big problem with that kind lately, from what I hear. And then there were a couple of cases reported in the Middle East where it was being used for torture, forcing people through their worst nightmares over and over until they finally broke…"

"Do stop your babbling," England said, sipping his tea with all the grace and poise of a high society gathering. "You're scaring the poor girl."

Liechtenstein made a little squeaking noise, hurriedly clapping her napkin over her mouth to hide both it and her blush. America rubbed the back of his neck and sent her a relaxed, reassuring smile.

"Sorry about that. Really, the Dream's not a bad thing, it's just a tool that some people abuse. It's done wonders for a lot of people. It's creative freedom like you wouldn't believe and, hell, it's been helping me piece my brain back together. Trust me, I wouldn't bring a cute girl like you into this if I thought it was at all dangerous."

England coughed into his napkin and shot America a Look as though he wanted to object, but said nothing. Liechtenstein composed herself, lowered the napkin into her lap and cleared her throat. "Okay then. So, um, what exactly is it you need me to do?"

"Just like I told you before: I need you to design a maze." America held up his hand, thumb and pinky curled against his palm. "Three of them, really. It'll be your job to design the Dream."

Liechtenstein's eyes fluttered to her sketchbook. "Design the dream, huh? So...do I just imagine it? Is that all I have to do?"

"At a technical level, yeah," America said, pushing the remainder of his cake around the plate with his spoon. "But the devil's in the details, hun. See, the most effective dreams are the ones where your mind doesn't quite believe that it's a dream. You have to make sure that everything is as realistic and tactile as possible, to fool the dreamer – even if only on a subconscious level – into believing it's real. The moment you really realize it's a dream, everything falls apart. But if you do it right, you can get the details down so well that you can convince anyone that your Dream is reality. You can even convince yourself, if you're not careful, even if you went into the Dream knowing full well what you were getting into."

Liechtenstein sat there a moment, turning the information over in her mind. Then she set down her cup and straightened in her chair. "Wait a minute. I just…This is…"

"Think about it, dear," said England. "How did you come to be here?"

America chuckled, leaning back in his seat. "Nobody ever remembers the beginning of a dream."

Lichtenstein looked at the hotel, the café and the lobby and realized that none of it was real. Then, it all stopped dead. Her teacup rattled on its saucer. A moment later, the dream exploded into a whirlwind of chaos.

**( - )**

Lichtenstein opened her eyes with a gasp. She was lying back in a rather comfortable, if small, leather recliner, with her hands folded over her stomach as though she'd been playing the corpse at a mock funeral. Vaguely, she was aware of a small IV tube curling away from the crook of her right arm, but she barely had time to register it before Japan reached out to carefully remove it.

"Welcome back," he said softly, discarding the used needle. "I trust it went well?"

On her right side, America laughed and sat up, pulling the IV from his own arm. "Well enough for a first timer. Feeling okay, Lili? Not sick or anything?"

"Um, no," said Liechtenstein, sitting up.

Switzerland hurried to her side, looking not particularly freaked out but perturbed. "What the hell was that about?" he demanded. "What was the point in knocking them all out for five minutes?"

"Five minutes?" Liechtenstein looked to the clock sitting by the couch that England was rising from, and her eyebrows shot to her hairline when she realized that, yes, only five minutes had passed since she'd first laid down in this hotel suite. "But it can't be. We were talking for almost an hour!"

England chuckled, rubbing the place where his needle had been removed. "Time flows a bit differently when you're dreaming, love; rather, your perception of it does. With all your extra brainpower freed up, everything in the Dream moves much more quickly than it does in the real world. The deeper that you go, the longer your dream will last."

"Oh." Liechtenstein gazed quietly around the room and then looked at her own hand. She wiggled her fingers and found that they felt a bit stiff, as though they'd been lying very still – she really had been asleep. "It felt so real."

Switzerland's brow furled and a scowl twisted itself ever deeper into his face. He turned on America and Japan insistently. "And you're certain this is safe?"

"Positive," said Japan, who was replacing the IV tubes and cleaning the entrance-exit ports where the PASIV's chemicals flowed through.

"I want proof."

"You're looking at it, buddy," America said, popping a crick out of his neck. He rolled his shoulders and extended an arm in Switzerland's direction, tugging up his sleeve so the trigger-happy nation could see the row bruises left by multiple IV drips. "I've done this a hundred times and it's never hurt me."

Switzerland's glare only grew fiercer. He muttered under his breath in German – something about mental difciancies and brain damage – then snapped, "I want to see for myself."

America rolled his eyes and looked to England. The Brit returned the gesture and rose from the couch with a dismissive flick of his wrist. "Let him do as he likes. I'll sit out this round. No sense in overcomplicating the situation with a tourist onboard. I'll go find out what's taking France so damn long with those drinks."

"Awesome," America said with a grin. "Make sure he's got plenty of coffee and not just your gross tea, okay?"

England paused at the suite door long enough to flip him off with the grace of a gentleman and the scowl of a delinquent. America laughed and plopped back into his chair, hooking up his own wire as Japan attended to Switzerland and his sister. "Put us under for another five minutes, okay Kiku? That ought to be more than enough time to finish the orientation."

"Hai," Japan said, nodding. He laid Liechtenstein back, patted her head like a kindly nanny and tried to ignore the dirty looks that Switzerland bore into his head. Once he was certain that all the IVs were properly attached, he returned to his position by the PASIV's case, double-checked the balance of the chemicals and initiated the sequence to begin the Dream.

"Sleep well," he bade the room in a quiet voice. It was the last sound any of the trio heard before they slipped into a peaceful and quiet sleep.

**( - )**

From their original starting point in the hotel café, America lead Switzerland and Liechtenstein out the front doors of the grand hotel and out onto the streets of Rome; or rather, he lead Liechtenstein out with a series of polite bows and held doors and pointedly ignored the grumpy Swiss man following their every move.

"Like I was saying, the devil's in the details," he said, gesturing broadly to the city around them. "Take a look at this place, and not just with your eyes. Take in the smells, the sounds, the tastes. You feel that snow against your face, the chill, how it melts and sticks? You've got to start paying attention to it, know what matters. If you're missing any of aspects, or they feel off, you'll startle your target right out of the Dream."

"So you created all this?" Liechtenstein asked, gazing around. "This is amazing. It looks just like Rome."

"No no no," America said, waving his finger warningly. "All this is based on a bunch of movie sets some of my people designed for a bunch of romance-in-Rome movies. I just blew it up into reality and covered it all in snow."

"Ooh," said Liechtenstein with a hint of wonder, trailing her eyes along the crowds that pushed past them. "And these people? Did you create them too?"

"I didn't have to – these guys are all manifestations of my subconscious. We may be sharing this dream, but it's my head you guys are wandering around in, and sometimes the brain can get pretty defensive, so watch your step."

Liechtenstein nodded her agreement, though she didn't really understand, and scanned the crowd once more. A flash of light caught her eye and she turned after it on instinct, catching a glimpse of grown-out blonde hair, glasses, and a single curled hair…

"Before we get too deep into this, I really aught to warn you," America said suddenly, turning to Liechtenstein with a serious expression and drawing her attention back to him. "Never, and I mean never, base your Dreams on anything you know in reality. Use pieces – a lamppost, a bridge, maybe the outside of a building – but never recreate places from your memories in their entirety. That's the easiest way to get lost."

"'Lost'?" Switzerland echoed, his voice dripping with suspicion.

America's eyes flickered to him, then focused back on Liechtenstein. "You remember what we told you about the Lotus Eaters?"

She nodded.

"What I'm talking about here is the extreme form of that. Lotus Eaters fall so in love with the Dream that they wish it was real and would rather live there than in the real world. But if you're not careful, there's always a chance that you could lose sight of what reality really is." His other hand fell on the girl's opposite shoulder, and he leaned down to look her straight in the eye. "Don't take that chance."

Liechtenstein nodded again, and America stepped away before Switzerland could go for his gun. The American ran a hand through his hair, replacing his serious expression with his usual smile, and rummaged through his coat pocket. "When we get out of here you're going to want to find yourself a totem; it's an extra safe guard to keep everything straight. For now though, why don't you give the creation side a shot? See what you're really capable of."

"Me?" Liechtenstein squeaked, pointing to herself.

"Of course," America said, leaning casually against a nearby building. "Go on, knock yourself out."

The girl clutched both her hands to her chest and looked around like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a truck. Her eyes scanned the city around them, as though searching for inspiration, before an idea finally settled in her mind. She relaxed and grew very still. A second later, the ground beneath Switzerland suddenly lurched upwards into a steep pillar straight out of Ancient Rome. It shot three, five, eight stories into the air, carrying the trigger-happy nation into the sky.

Switzerland yelped, lost his balance and fell to his hands and knees. "Liechtenstein!"

"S-Sorry big brother!" Liechtenstein called up, the momentary relaxation escaping her in a flurry of flustered flails. "I didn't mean to put it there!"

America laughed out loud and clapped his hands. "Not bad for your first try. Not bad at all."

Switzerland's growl reached them even from his high perch. He scowled over the edge, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the side of the platform. "It's just a damn dream," he spat. "I can jump down just fine!"

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," America warned, waving his finger again. "You don't know how to kill the physics in a pre-defined setting yet, and getting hurt in a dream still hurts like hell, so long as it doesn't kill you."

Switzerland turned white, then red. "You can _die_ in these things?"

"Not for real," America said with a shrug. "This ain't the Matrix. You die here and you'll wake up, but that doesn't mean it won't hurt like hell first. Lili, it'll probably be better if you get him down instead, okay?"

"Um. Okay."

Liechtenstein closed her eyes again, but before she could do anything America's voice broke in. "You're too tense. This isn't some kind of exercise, it ought to be a natural process. Just relax."

Liechtenstein took a deep breath and held it for a count of ten. She released it slowly, letting her body settle into the same relaxed state she took before she tried to sleep. She opened her eyes.

Instantly, the world around them melded to her will. The pillar sprouted stairs, which looped around its marble surface in a tight spiral and let Switzerland to the ground. Switzerland followed it hesitantly, somewhat awed by the power his little sister was suddenly wielding, and landed on the sidewalk as easily as if he'd stepped out of a car.

"Good, good," America said encouragingly. "Careful though. Bend the laws too much and you'll draw attention to yourself."

If Liechtenstein heard his words she didn't see fit to acknowledge it. She turned and headed down the street, slipping through the crowds as easily as a fish through a stream.

America hummed to himself, glancing in Switzerland's direction. "Looks like she's getting into it. Come on, we better keep up."

Switzerland nodded, still a little surprised by the power his sister now apparently wielded. The two of them hurried to catch up with Liechtenstein, who was now moving through the streets at an excited pace, a creative gleam flashing in her eyes.

"Did you design all of this?" Switzerland asked after a fourth right turn somehow did not put them right back at the hotel.

America shook his head. "The only thing I designed was that first street. Everything else is all Liechtenstein." His lips quirked into the same excited smile he'd worn while declaring his intentions in the meeting room. "She's a natural. Just like I knew she would be. She's perfect!"

They came to a busy street, thick with traffic and roaming passerby, but Liechtenstein paid it little mind. A bridge suddenly blossomed from the pavement, its perfectly measured stairs carrying them – and the few passerby who flowed with them – up and over the street as though it had always belonged there. The design here was a different from the rest of the city, perhaps a reflection of Lichtenstein's own home.

It was only when they made it to the other side that Switzerland realized the crowd was beginning to act strangely. The passerby, which had originally treated them as nothing more than part of the crowd, were starting to stare at Liechtenstein and Switzerland as the three Dreams moved among them. No, not stare – glare. Their eyes bore a vicious, heated accusation, as though the three had been caught doing something terribly wrong.

"Why are they all looking at us?" Switzerland asked, sending a glare back at a woman who seemed completely unfazed by the hand that rested on his pistol.

America had noticed it too, and his brow was furulled with a worrying concern. "They're figuring it out," he muttered, and picked up his pace to catch up with Liechtenstein. "Hey, Lili. Hold on a sec! You need to tone it down."

He caught Leichtenstein's arm and the girl looked back in surprise. In the same moment, a wall of gleaming black glass shot out of the ground in front of them, coming to a sharp point ten stories above their heads. Three other similar walls sprouted from the roads from which they'd come, falling together to form a towering black pyramid that engulfed half the city.

For a brief moment, the snowy city of Rome was covered in near-impenetrable darkness. Then the city attacked.

**( - )**

England stepped from the hotel suite to find France already standing outside the door with a drink carrier full of Styrofoam cups. The Englishman looked from the drinks to his companion's face, pushed the door closed until he heard the click of the lock and leaned against it with his arms crossed over his chest. "Since you're out here, I assume you have something you want to talk about, frog."

"Oui." France pulled a drink from the carrier and offered it to England with a graceful sweep of his arm. "Your tea."

England took the cup and sipped its contents. He muttered something about weak tea-making practices and glanced France's way once more. "So, what's on your mind?"

France glanced at the door, then down the hall, as though he suspected that someone might happen upon them. Then he heaved a sigh and set the drink carrier on the floor beside the suite door. "Amerique has told you of his plan, I assume."

"Aye," England said with a nod. "He wants to go three levels down, to the very brink of his own subconscious. A dream within a dream within a dream. Why? Does it make you nervous, getting so close to limbo?"

"Of course not," France said with a sniff, but the way that he avoided the Englishman's eye betrayed his hidden uncertainties.

Limbo, they knew, was no urban myth like the concept of inception. The pure creative subspace had been proven time and time again by those who studied the nature of Dreams. It was well-known as the place where one was most likely to lose the concept of reality, and the time distortion left every second of sleep lasting an eternity. The grim fates of those who had wasted their lives an sanity in limbo's gasp served as a warning for all Dreams: go too far down the rabbit hole and you might never come back.

England sipped his tea, leaned against the door and contemplating the heavy silence falling between him and France. When he finally spoke, it was with a level of determination and authority that could not be challenged, even if France had wanted to. "We draw the line after this. America gets one more chance. We'll go down to layer three, and if he still can't get his together after all that, we're through. All of us."

France nodded. "I agree. It is what is best."

He looked as though about to say more – perhaps delivering some clichéd line about how Canada would not want them all endangered for his sake – when a scream echoed from within the suite. England dropped his tea and, together, the two burst into the rooms.

Switzerland was awake, clutching at his chest and giving great heaves that shook his entire body. Japan looked just as startled as England and France, especially when Switzerland began to rip the PASIV's cords out of his own body as though casting away live snakes.

"What happened?" England demanded.

"I don't know," Japan said, flustered. "Something must have gone wrong, he must have died…"

"Liechtenstein!" Switzerland gasped, flinging himself from the couch. He grabbed his still-unmoving sister by the shoulders and shook her violently. "Lili, Liechtenstein, wake up! Wake up!"

"Vash, please!" France said, reaching for the smaller nation's shoulder. "Don't do such a thing, you're liable to hurt her!"

Switzerland knocked France's hand away, spinning around to face them, briefly. His blue eyes were wide with an insane level of fear, and his heaving breasts had not calmed in the slightest. His gaze fell upon America's still-slumbering form and he pounced, shaking the other nation violently by the collar.

"You bastard! Wake up, you bastard!" he shouted, striking America once across the face. "Give me back my sister!"

"Stop it, Switzerland!" England said, grabbing Switzerland's right arm. France seized the left and the two bodily carried the smaller nation across the room and pinned him on the couch. None of them could fathom what had happened in the dream, but they both knew that Japan was certainly right: something had gone terribly, terribly wrong.

**( - )**

Switzerland was dead.

The mob had descended before America could react, converging on Switzerland en masse. They seized his arms, legs and shoulders before he could even think of reaching for his gun and, in the next second, one of them split away from the group with a long, cruel knife in hand.

Liechtenstein had turned just in time to see the knife plunge into her brother's stomach. She'd screamed and it had brought the crowd's attention to her as Switzerland's lifeless body sank to the pavement. Without a second thought, she turned and ran, sprinting across the bridge she had created seconds before.

"Liechtenstein!" America shouted after her. "Stop!"

But she did not hear him, too lost in the horror of seeing her beloved brother so freshly dead and the fear that the pursuing mob would do the same to her. In seconds, she was across the bridge and racing down the streets of his imagined Rome, disappearing from his sight and from the reach of his voice.

She darted down the maze-like corridors of streets, taking corners as break-neck speed and not daring to glance behind as long as she heard footsteps. Finally, she dove into the tiny gap between two buildings and fell back against one, gasping for breath. The crowd dashed past without even looking her way.

"Big brother," she whispered to herself, a few fat tears rolling. "B-Big brother…"

"Hush, now."

Liechtenstein jerked in the direction of the voice, though it was only her nerves that startled her so, for the voice was so quiet that she wouldn't have noticed it at any other time. There was a skinny, blonde figure standing at the other end of the alley, blocking her way. She recognized him, but only because she'd seen so many of his pictures lately, in America's photo albums and the tiny portrait that America carried in his wallet.

His name fell from her lips before she could stop it, "Mister Canada!"

The blonde young man – who looked so much like America, now that she saw him up close – shifted down the tiny corridor like a ghost, so silent and smooth that she half-imagined she could see the fluttering of a sheet around his thin form. Hesitantly, wondering what on earth was going on, Liechtenstein took a step closer to him; but that was as far as she got before two of the crowd from outside burst into their little nook and seized her arms, holding them outright like a sacrifice before the alter.

"Liechtenstein!" America called, his voice echoing from the far end of the gap. Liechtenstein saw him appear over the top of Canada's head, sliding to a stop and freezing like a rabbit in the headlights of an oncoming semi-truck. "Mattie."

Canada turned back to look at his brother, his expression emotionless and cold. His hands slipped into the pockets of his hoodie.

America swallowed. "Mattie, please. You don't want to do this."

Canada shook his head and clicked his tongue, combining the disapproving movements of England and France into a single subtle expression.

"Mattie," America begged. "Please. Don't hurt her."

Canada slid his hands from his hoodie, turning back to Liechtenstein with his expression as cold as ever. In one hand, he now held a long, sharp hunting knife that gleamed even in the gloom of their little gap. Liechtenstein went rigid, searching wildly for an escape, but there was none. She was trapped.

"Lili!" America shouted, lunging into the gap. "Wake up! You have to wake up, now!"

Liechtenstein had no idea what he was talking about.

"Wake up! Wake up, wake up, Mattie, don't!"

But it was too late for even the hero to act. Canada took a single step forward and swung the knife straight across the curve of Liechtenstein's throat, slitting neatly from side to side. Bright red blood sprayed across the gap, and Liechtenstein felt strangely breathless for a few brief seconds.

She caught a final glimpse of Canada's face, grim and cold, covered in her blood.

And then, it was over.

**( - )**

"Liechtenstein! Oh, Lili!"

Liechtenstein woke and was almost instant engulfed in a protective huge from Switzerland, who burst from the grip of England and France like a wild bull from its pen. Liechtenstein clutched at her own throat, coughing, but found no trace of the wound she'd received in the dream. Only the memory of pain remained as Switzerland swept her into his arms and held her against his chest as though afraid she would disappear if he dared to loosen his grip.

A moment later, America was awake too, sitting up in his chair and pressing a hand against his forehead. "Oh man," he said. "That could have gone better."

"What the bloody hell happened in there?" England snapped.

"Nothing to worry about, Iggy, take a chill pill," America said, waving one hand dismissively as he removed his wires and climbed out of his chair. "We got a little carried away and the projections went into the defense mode. That's all."

England opened his mouth as though to say more, but was cut off by Switzerland, who suddenly wheeled around with a punch to America's jaw that only missed because the American ducked at the last moment.

"You bastard!" the Swiss raged. "You said that those things weren't dangerous!"

"They're not," America said rationally, raising both hands in a mock surrender. "Just take a look, neither you nor Liechtenstein are hurt. The only thing that happens when you die in a dream is that you wake up. That's all."

Liechtenstein, now free from her brother's grip, rubbed her throat self-consciously. "What happened in there? What was that?"

America sighed, rubbing the back of his neck and giving careful thought to his explanation before he gave it. "When you create a dream world, it naturally becomes populated by projections of your subconscious. These projections act like antibodies, sniffing out intruders into your mind and eliminating them. That's part of the reason you have to design Dreams as a maze. It keeps you hidden, and that keeps you safe until it's time to wake up, and then you don't have to go through that painful mess."

Switzerland bristled like a cat, one hand flickering to his holster, which was in fact empty at this moment as Japan hadn't wanted to risk gunpowder residue getting mixed in with their equipment. He clenched his fists. "We're not going through any of this mess, ever again."

"Switzerland-san," Japan began, but Switzerland had already turned, seized Liechtenstein by the arm and pulled her from the room, his hair practically standing on end with the tension of his desire to keep her safe. Liechtenstein managed to turn back and offer the room one last lingering apology with her eyes before the door slammed shut behind her and they were gone.

The four nations remaining stayed in silence. France sighed and sat down on the couch, running a hand through his hair. "Well, that was a disaster."

"Indeed," England said, and plopped onto the couch with a similar sigh and no regard for who he was actually sitting next to. His eyes flickered to America. "So, now what do you plan to do?"

"We wait," America said with a shrug, turning to help Japan pack the PASIV up again. "She'll be back. She won't be able to resist. You should have seen her, England. She's really a natural, and you know what it's like. Now that she's had a chance at that pure creative power, she won't be able to live without trying it again."

England and France exchanged heavy looks, and Japan, as though sensing that an awkward conversation was about to follow, finished packing away the equipment and quietly excused himself from the room. The two Europeans waited until he was safely away until England rose again, fixing America with a serious gaze.

"America," he said sternly. "We've reached a decision, about this operation of yours."

America pressed his lips together and steeled himself for what was coming. "…Go on."

"This is your last chance," said England, in a tone that left no room for argument or debate. "We'll go down to Level Three, just this once. After that, it's over. You will either figure out what's wrong with your memories, or you leave them be. Either way, this is the last attempt at Recollection that this team will ever pursue. Do you understand?"

America glanced at France. The older nation has always been as eager to find Canada as America himself. That was no surprise. Canada and France had always been close. But now France looked tired and sad. He was on the verge of giving up all hope, the way that England already had to spare himself the pain. This was the last real chance that any of them had.

America sighed. "All right then," he said, picking up the PASIV in its silver case. "Whatever you guys say."

And with that, he left them behind.

**( - )**

Much later that night, Liechtenstein hovered nervously outside the door to America's hotel room, wondering if she should knock. It had taken her several hours and a sleeping pill in his bottled water for her to get away from Switzerland, but now that she was here she half-wanted to run back to her brother, curl up beside him and sleep until the memory of being sliced open had finally died away.

But under that memory was a rush of excitement, of longing. She'd never felt anything like the Dream before. The idea of being in control of an entire world, even if – perhaps, especially if – it was a dangerous world full of secrets and symbols, was so thrilling. And…and she needed to know.

She steeled her resolve and knocked on the door. "Mister America?"

There was no answer. She waited for a full minute, then tried again, a bit louder this time. "Mister America? Are you awake?"

Still, there was no answer. She started to get nervous. It was too late for him to be out, and she knew that England and France were already in their rooms. What if he was in some kind of trouble?

Liechtenstein hesitated, glanced up and down the hall to makes sure that she was alone. She was. From the pocket of her dress, she drew the hotel master key she'd been given by the security guard who'd been trying to flirt with her since they arrived. She was neither as ignorant nor as innocent as she sometimes seemed. She knew that he'd only given her the key because he wanted to get under her skirt, but as long as she had it, this was as good a time as ever to use it.

She unlocked the door and stepped quietly into America's room, her footfalls hidden by the thick carpet. She eased the door closed behind her and peered into the darkened room. It was lit only by a familiar blue-silver glow.

Her eyes widened. "Mister America?" she called again, just to make sure. When she received no answer, she stepped all the way into the room proper and confirmed what she had found.

America lay on the bed, fast asleep with an IV coiling out of his arm. His breathing was slow and steady, in time with the whirring and beeping of the PASIV's moving parts. Liechtenstein leaned over the machine and took in the readings as best she could. She didn't really understand it all, but from what she could gather, America was definitely dreaming and had set the machine to wake him with more than enough time to prepare for tomorrow's meeting; the last of their World Conference for the year.

Liechtenstein turned her eyes from the machine and settled them on America. He looked so peaceful in his sleep, and so young. She forgot sometimes that he was much younger than the other nations, older than her but so much younger than the rest of Europe. He'd risen quickly and gone through a lot. The pressure had aged his face without actually aging him. Now, in sleep, he at least seemed to be at peace. She wondered what he was dreaming about.

America's sleep was mostly undisturbed, as it should have been under the influence of the PASIV, but as she watched over him, his face twisted briefly into a more distressed expression. His eyes moved restlessly beneath their lids and a word slipped from his mouth. "Mattie…"

Liechtenstein knew what she had to do.

She left his side for a moment to push the room's armchair over to beside the bed. She settled into the chair, pulled out the extra PASIV cords and inserted the IV into her own arm. She leaned back and kept her eyes on America as the chemicals began to flow into her veins. Her eyes fluttered closed and she surrendered herself to sleep.

A moment later, Liechtenstein once again stepped into America's dreams.

_**TBC…**_


	3. The PreJob Part Two

_**Disclaimer: **__I don't own Hetalia or any of the prompts and themes I'm borrowing from the movie "Inception." I'm just walking proof that an idea is the most intrepid parasite. Enjoy._

**Recollection**

**Chapter Three: The Pre-Job Part Two**

Liechtenstein found herself in the woods.

It was cool here; not cold, but cool, shaded by the trees encircled her little path and stretched into the sky. The forest was thick and the trees were twisted and ancient. She'd never seen a forest like this before, not even in the rare occasion she was allowed to wander through the thickest woods of Europe. It seemed to be completely wild, untouched by human hands, and filled with the kind of darkness and mystery that had long ago been sapped from the world she knew.

Stepping into the place, even with its all-devouring shadows and distant howls of unknown beasts, felt as though she were setting foot on hallowed ground. Thus, Liechtenstein moved as silently as she could through the trees, hesitating at every branch and leaf that was crushed beneath her steps, and resisted the urge to hold her breath. She seemed to be alone, but she knew that to be impossible. This was America's Dream, so America had to be here somewhere. Didn't he?

She licked her lips and called softly into the trees, not daring to give her words true voice, "Mister America?"

Her words did not echo. They seemed to be absorbed by the wood; but after a moment another sound reached her ears instead. It was the cry of a baby. No, not one baby. Two.

Liechtenstein lifted her skirts and broke into a run, darting through the trees with grace and speed. Her heart pounded in her ears as the cries grew louder. Were there really children – infants! – in place like this? And they kept on crying…were they alone?

Finally, she found them: two infants not even old enough to walk, wrapped snugly together into a single contraption of leather and wood. They were nestled together so tightly within the warm ties and blankets that she could only catch a glimpse of their pale faces and golden hair, one slightly paler than the other as though it had been frosted with silver. Slowly, Liechtenstein stepped closer, creeping across the scattered remnants so as not to disturb the now-silent infants. The crying had stopped now and they were so quiet that she feared that something was wrong. Then she was close enough to see their sweet, round little faces and saw that they were merely asleep.

She took in a little gasp and tried to hold in the childish desire to squeal. They were adorable, precious little angels, folded up against one another as though they had been born to fit that way. As she leaned over them, the closest one to her, the one whose hair was bright gold – without the touch of frost – suddenly turned towards her, yawned and opened his eyes.

Liechtenstein knew those eyes.

"Mister America," she breathed.

"You called?"

Liechtenstein jumped a foot. She twisted around and found America approaching from behind her, resting a hand on the tree trunks as he passed. The other one moved to rub the back of his neck. "Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"It's…It's okay," Liechtenstein said, releasing her gasp with a sigh. She looked from America, the full-grown America, to the once-more sleeping babies that slept peacefully against the tree. "Is that really you. And…And Mister Canada?"

America's gaze softened. "Yeah. That's us."

He stepped closer with an odd look on his face. Liechtenstein stepped out of his way. He knelt among the leaves without making a sound and stroked the soft cheek of his brother's former self. "When we were newborns, right after the first Europeans set foot on our continent, we were just like any other babies. We couldn't speak or get food or even walk on our own. A couple of the native tribes – there were hundreds of them, back then – passed us around in a cradle board until we finally got old enough to run off on our own."

Little Canada stirred under his touch, but did not wake, curling closing to the sleeping form of his brother. A sad smile crawled onto America's face. "You know, it's funny," he said, even softer than before. "When I'm awake I don't even remember this. Not really. It's amazing how far back your subconscious can go, in dreams."

Liechtenstein swallowed anxiously. "Does that mean you remember about Mister Canada?"

America shook his head, standing and brushing the dirt from his pants. "No, nothing important; and certainly not from that time. These are just the flashes I get when I try to think of him."

"These?" Liechtenstein asked, but America did not respond. He turned away and set off into the woods, following some hidden trail familiar only to him. Liechtenstein took one last look at the sleeping babies they left behind, then followed him through the trees.

"I guess you found me sleeping," America said, after they'd been walking for a few minutes.

Liechtenstein flushed with embarrassment. "I'm so sorry."

America laughed. "Don't worry. There're a lot worse things you could see."

A matched set of childish giggles echoed through the trees. A moment later, two small children, still in their white nightgowns, came loping in on the back of a polar bear cub barely large enough to hold them. They rode without taking note of either America or Liechtenstein, bursting across the path and turning circles in the road before lumbering off into the darkness once more.

"What is this place?" Liechtenstein asked, hoping that America would silence her if her curiosity wandered too far.

"You know that feeling you get, when you forget a name or word, and it's right on the tip of your tongue or you can picture the face it belongs to, but you just can't seem to get it out?"

Liechtenstein nodded.

"This is where that memory happens to hide. At least, it is for me."

A young America, now a strapping young boy old enough to go to primary school, darted across the path in his britches, suspenders and a button-up shirt. His feet skidded into the dirt as he slid to a stop, turned around and shouted into the trees, "C'mon on, Mattie, hurry up!"

"I'm coming!" the young shade of Canada called in response, stumbling behind with the polar bear in his arms. "Don't run so fast, America!"

Young America laughed out loud and dove into the grove across the path. America, the grown man, stopped to watch as the young memory of Canada staggered in his brother's footsteps, huffing and puffing as he clutched his bear like a security blanket. The smile on America's face turned sad, his longing seeping into every pore of his expression.

Liechtenstein watched him and the memories as carefully as she could, absorbing all of the details. "Is this where Mister Canada came from before? The one that I met in the alley."

America shook his head and his expression turned dark. "No. He's something else entirely."

"Something like what?"

They started walking again. It was neither humid nor cold in this forest. Liechtenstein hadn't quite noticed before but, now that she was trying to be aware, she realized that it felt no differently in here than it did in the hotel room. Maybe that was because their minds had already accepted the unreality, willing to accept the oddness as long as it was only a harmless dream.

"I'm not sure exactly," America said, blowing up his bangs with a sigh. "He started turning up when I went looking for my memories. At first I thought it was Mattie, trying to help me find him, but now…I'm pretty sure that's not right at all."

There was a snap from the trees to their right, which made Liechtenstein jump. Two figures, shadows wavering as though backlit by an old oil lamp, moved among the trees.

"I'm leaving," said one, gripping something that could only be a gun. "Come with me. We can be free together."

The other figure shook his head, voice barely rising above a whisper. "I can't."

"You can. We'll fight together."

Another shaking head, moving more quickly this time. "I can't. I won't. Just go."

America moved quickly away, leaving the shades behind where their voices would carry no more. Liechtenstein hurried to keep up and tried to ignore the noise that sounded like a gunshot in their wake.

"What is he then?" she asked again, pressing close to America, not wanting to lose him at this speed. "A memory?"

America shook his head. "No, something else. Some manifestation of my own mind, like the Projections, but worse. Every time he shows up, he wrecks everything. And he's ruthless. I could never remember Mattie that way."

A gunshot rang through the air, startling Liechtenstein so badly that she grabbed America's arm like a frightened schoolgirl. With a crash, two teenagers in clashing army uniforms – one red, one blue, both blood-stained and tattered – slammed into the ground in front of them, a musket clutched between them. They rolled over each other with such viciousness and fury from both sides that it was impossible to tell who was defending and who was trying to wrap their hands around the other's throat.

"You bastard!" one of them shouted, though Liechtenstein could not tell who had given the cry. "You burned it all, you son of a bitch! How could you do that to me?"

America went rigid as a cliff and white as the foam of the sea. Through clenched teeth, he hissed a painful, "_Stop_."

And then forest was gone.

They were in the hallway of the hotel where the World Meeting was being held. Liechtenstein glanced around and, as near as she could remember, it was all but perfect. Everything was exactly the same, from the well-groomed carpet to the perfect blossoms sitting in their vases along the wall.

America was breathing hard, his muscles tense, even the arm that Lichtenstein held. She hung on for a moment, gave it a supportive squeeze and stepped away to give him a little space. America clenched his fists, looked at the floor and forced his muscles to relax.

"Sometimes," he said, as an explanation, "memories can be hard to face."

Liechtenstein nodded in understanding.

"Ah, America!"

The voice came from England, of all people, advancing from the other end of the hall. He walked towards them briskly, adjusting his tie with a distracted expression.

Liechtenstein squeaked. "Mister England, what are you doing here?"

"It's not him, Lili," America said. "Not really."

"You git," England said again. "Would you look at me when I'm talking to you?"

America lifted his head and looked directly at the Englishman. England walked right past him without even a glance, moving instead to catch the man behind him by the arm. The blonde turned around with a surprised expression. It was Canada.

He blinked his wide violet eyes and turned his head to the side in confusion. "Ah, England. Did you need something?"

England dropped his arm and looked quite flustered, tugging at his tie once more. "Oh, Canada. I'm sorry, I thought you were your good-for-nothing brother there for a moment. You look so similar from behind."

"It's all right," Canada said with a laugh. "At least you always know my face."

"Yes, yes, of course, how could I possibly forget you?" England said with a chuckle. "Now, I don't suppose you've seen your good-for-nothing brother anywhere? I've been meaning all afternoon to talk with…oh, what is his name again…?"

Canada blinked owlishly again. "Why, I don't know who you're talking about England."

"You know, the fellow who looks like you. Strange, his name was on the tip of my tongue just a moment ago…"

Liechtenstein stared, baffled, at the projections of the two men and at the figure they spoke of, who stood off to the side without a single word. America stood only inches away, yet neither England nor Canada seemed to notice his presence. A few moments later, France appeared and it happened all over again, the three nations walking straight past America even as they laughed about not being able to remember who they'd been talking about.

Finally, she said, "I don't get it. Why can't they see you?"

America shrugged. "They never do. I figure it's punishment, for all of the times that I ignored him or forgot him or stole everyone's attention. It's for all the times I made him feel like he was nothing. When he was invisible."

He went to the door and gazed inside, watching the projections of his mind and memories flock around Canada the way that the real nations came to him in life. America blinked and two thin trails of moisture rolled down his cheeks, sinking into the curves of a smile that did not make its way to his eyes.

"Sometimes I really hate myself, for the way I treated him back then," he said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. "I guess my subconscious hates me too."

His expression was so mournful that it made Liechtenstein's heart thump painfully in her chest. "Mister America…"

He turned his smile to her. It still had not made its way into his eyes. "Never mind all my gloomy shit," he said, waving it off as though his sadness were a bothersome fly. "What did you want to tell me?"

Liechtenstein was startled. "I…How did you know I wanted to…"

America's smile widened. "I can't think of any other reason a nice girl like you would be wandering into my room in the middle of the night."

Liechtenstein flushed. She looked at the carpet beneath her feet and shifted awkwardly in her Mary Janes, feeling like a schoolgirl who'd been called out passing notes in class. "I, um. I just wanted to tell you that I still want to help. And…And I'm sorry for how big brother reacted today. He didn't mean it, really."

"Yes he did," America said with a chuckle, resting a hand on her shoulder. "Vash just wants to look out for you, is all."

"I know he does," she said. "But I still want to help."

"I appreciate that, hun," America said, slipping into just a hint of his Texas accent. He leaned forward and gave her a brotherly little kiss on the forehead. "I really do."

Liechtenstein's cheeks were so warm they felt ready to burst into flames at any moment.

"Now," said America, pulling away from her. "I think it's time we woke you up so you can go get some real rest, in a nice bed."

Remembering how she'd been woken during her first Dream, Lichtenstein's throat tightened in anticipation. "Does that mean you're going to…kill me here?"

America chuckled. "No, no, no. All you need is a kick."

"A…kick?"

Without even a hint of explanation, America stepped forward and swept Liechtenstein into his arms. She let out a little squeak and moved to wrap her arms around his neck, but he shook them off and gave her a little wink. "Sorry to kick you out like this, but the last thing either of us wants is for your big brother to come in and get the wrong idea. You sleep tight, okay?"

"O-Okay," Liechtenstein sputtered. She had the sneaking suspicion that she wanted, no, needed, to as America something else but, before she could get her thoughts together enough to try, he dropped her.

**( - )**

Liechtenstein opened her eyes. She was back in America's room, the PASIV machine still beeping quietly to itself in the darkness. According to the clock on the bedside table, it had been ten minutes since she'd entered the Dream. America was still asleep and had not moved from his place on the bed.

It took a moment for Liechtenstein's mind and body to adjust to being awake again. She sat up, rubbed her neck and turned to peak out of the heavy hotel curtains. The streets of Rome were quiet and covered in snow.

She turned back to the bed. At the very least, America seemed peaceful again, hardly stirring in his sleep. She brushed a few golden hairs from his forehead and left a gentle kiss beneath them. "Good night, Mister America."

Then she locked his door and made her way back to the room she shared with her brother.

**( - )**

America looked down at Liechtenstein's crumpled form, lying sprawled across the hotel carpet in a tangled pile of her own skirts. Kicks were always unnerving, if you lingered behind after they were gone. As soon as he turned his eyes away, he knew, her 'body' would vanish; but for now it was as if she had dropped dead somewhere between his arms and the floor. The thought of doing something like that to a girl, a child, as innocent as Lichtenstein…it made him sick.

Feeling eyes boring into the back of his neck, he finally turned away from the motionless form and faced the man who watched him from the shadows. "Hey Mattie. Sorry to keep you waiting."

Canada – or at least, the projection of him created by America's mind – slid around the corner. His arms were crossed over his chest like a barrier, holding America at a distance. The way that his shoulders were set against the striped wallpaper made the defense even stronger. His violet eyes, when they flickered in America's direction, were cold. He did not smile.

"Let me guess," he said, voice dripping with derision and disgust. "You're going to tell me to leave the girl out of this, playing up your heroic resolve and completely ignoring the fact that you're the one who got her involved in the first place."

America gave a little smirk and tilted his head to the side. "Have I ever asked you to leave any of them 'out of this'?" he asked rhetorically. "They're all grown-up nations with their own GDP and everything. They know the risk."

"Do they?"

Matthew's gaze narrowed to a harsh point, which tried its hardest to pierce America's soul. America tried to steel himself against it, like the hard blackened crust of an overcooked burger, but it didn't matter. This Canada was only a part of his subconscious, after all. He knew everything that America knew.

"You're a manipulative bastard," he spat, "And you know it. You're a manipulative, lying, selfish bastard."

"Call me whatever you want," America said with a shrug. He narrowed his eyes to mimic the projection's, reinforcing his resolve. "I'm willing to do whatever it takes. I just want to find Canada."

"No," said Matthew cryptically. "You don't."

Then he turned on his heel and walked out of America's dream.

**( - )**

"Good afternoon, dear."

"Oh," Lichtenstein said in surprise, freezing in the front door of the hotel suite like a rabbit stumbled upon by a fox. A moment later, she remembered her manners and curtsied to England politely. "Good afternoon, Mister England."

"Arthur is fine," England said with soft chuckle. Once again, he was sipping from a cup of tea. Liechtenstein wondered if the man was ever not drinking tea. He seemed to drink so much that it must have replaced his blood by now.

The World Conference had wrapped up that morning without a hitch. Germany was quite pleased at this development and was therefore willing to overlook the commotion of the day before. Most of the attending countries were returning home this afternoon, but America had made special arrangements with Italy and his government to extend the stay for Lichtenstein, Switzerland and the rest of his "Dream Team" for at least three weeks. That, he said, was how long they would need to school Lichtenstein on the Dreaming specifics, plot their course through the three layers of the Dream and, eventually, make their descent.

Lichtenstein folded out of her coat and hung it in the closet, looking around the suite. "Where is Mister America?" she asked, a bit apprehensive. She was still concerned about her big brother's reaction to this new development, especially after his disastrous trial encounter, but America had promised to take care of everything.

"Alfred won't be joining us for the next few days," England said, setting his tea aside and rising from his seat. "He's busy organizing the rest of the team, arranging things with the Italian government, and drafting a few last-minute recruits."

"Oh?" said Lichtenstein, surprised. "Like who?"

"I'm not sure." England gave a gentlemanly little shrug and made his way across the room to the PASIV machine, which sat in the middle of five small black-leather recliners, the couch and the bed. "Though I do know that we require a good chemist. Japan is an excellent technician, but he's not particularly well-versed on the medicinal side of things, and a delicate balance will be required to go three levels deep without putting anyone into a coma."

"I see," Lichtenstein said, filing the information away in her head. "So Mister America's gone to recruit a chemist."

"And deal with your brother, I should imagine," England said. He drew a pair of white gloves from his suit coat pocket and pulled them on before he opened the PASIV. His touch was more delicate than Japan's had been, almost as though he were afraid to touch the thing. "But we shouldn't dwell on that right now, we've got your training to worry about. Suffice it to say, for now, that both Switzerland and whatever poor clod America's chosen to mix our cocktails are about to find themselves rather taken aback, and we'd both be better to sleep through it so we can get some real work done."

Lichtenstein fell back into her usual chair, wringing her skirt nervously in her hands. "U-Um," she stuttered. "What kind of surprise to you mean?"

"Well," said England with a sigh. "Let's just say that America is not the most subtle nation in the world…"

**( - )**

"What do you _mean_ I can't check out?"

"I am sorry, Mister von Bock," said the receptionist in surprisingly good Russian, bobbing her head. "We've been asked to inform you that your stay in this hotel has been extended for at least two weeks, with the request that you not leave the building for the rest of the day."

Estonia folded his arms across his chest and drummed his fingers against the inside of his elbow. His rolling suitcase, with his laptop computer packed safely inside, sat at his foot like a loyal pet begging to be released. Behind him, the residents of a large television let out a howl of canned laughter, mocking him for his inability to get out even the hotel's front door. "This is ridiculous. I have to check out. I'm about to miss my flight!"

"Ah, yes," said the receptionist, clicking through the notes on her desktop. "The gentlemen who extended your stay also asked us to inform you that he will be compensating you for the cost of your current flight and that he will also be happy to purchase the ticket for your return flight once his current business with you is concluded in two to three weeks. And he would like us to stress that this new return flight will be in first class."

Estonia pushed his glasses up thoughtfully. He'd never flown first class before. The most his government had ever allowed him was business class.

"Just who is this 'gentleman' you're talking about?" he asked wearily.

A hand, large and warm, descended onto his shoulder. "He's standing right behind you, Eduard old buddy."

"I should have known," Estonia said with a sigh, glancing over at the blond-haired, blue-eyed young man beaming at him like some fool talk show host. "Alfred Jones. What on earth do you want this time?"

"Auw, Eddy, I'm hurt," America said and pantomimed clutching his heart with a melodramatic swoon. "You act like I never come to talk to my old movie buddy unless I want something."

"You don't," Estonia said flatly, shoving his glasses up with a huff. "And you certainly don't divert my flight for two weeks just to have a chat. Also: don't call me Eddy."

America's grin widened and he chuckled, putting his arm around Estonia's shoulders and steering him from the front desk. "Dully noted," he said. "And you're right, of course. I do need a favor. But, as the pretty lady told you, I fully intend to compensate you for your effort and time."

"You always do."

"And I always deliver."

This, Estonia had to admit, was true. America had always been prone to wild flights of fancy and bizarre outbursts, but he was also intelligent enough to know when he was unable to complete the plans on his own, and he always, always paid up what he promised to those who helped him.

He sighed and rubbed his neck. "Okay," he said. "What do you need?"

"A chemist."

"For a Dream?" America nodded and Estonia raised an eyebrow. "What, you're not trusting Kiku with that anymore?"

"Kiku's got the mechanicals. It's the chemicals we need."

"With a PASIV it's the same thing."

"Not for this."

Estonia's eyebrow snaked further up, and his glasses slid down his nose. Normal Dreams were easy enough, you just used the assigned chemical materials the way the instructions said and it turned out fine. To need non-standard chemicals meant digging into black market territories… "What are you planning now?"

America held up his left hand, pinky and thumb curled against the palm. "Three levels down."

Estonia clicked his tongue. "You always were one for treading risky frontiers."

"You can do it, right?"

"Of course." Estonia shoved his glasses up his nose. "I've got a contact in Israel who knows the recipe for an herbal concoction designed for exactly that purpose. It's illegal, of course…"

"Let me worry about the laws."

"…And I don't have the materials I'd need to prepare it here…"

"Whatever you need, name it. It'll be in your hotel room before the end of the week."

"You're really serious about this, aren't you?" Estonia stopped and turned to America. They were alone now, hovering outside the hotel elevators, but he still kept his voice low as he asked, "What's this really about."

America slipped his hands into his pockets. His stance was open, but not relaxed. He had nothing to hide, but he also had no reason to be complacent. "This is my last chance, Eduard. After this try, England's pulling the plug. If this doesn't work, my memories will stay right where they are, and I may never see my brother again."

The frankness took Estonia by surprise. America wasn't trying to play to his emotional side. He knew that Estonia was a logical man. So he was doing the logical thing, and stating the facts. No ifs, ands or buts about it.

He shook his head, flipped his hands in defeat and let them thump against his sides. "All right," he said. "I'll do it."

With a whoop, America clapped Estonia on the back so hard that he nearly fell over. "Good old Eduard!" he enthused, punching the elevator button. "I knew I could count on you. All right, you head on back to your room, make yourself comfortable and start writing out that list of whatever you need for this to work. I'd come with you, but at the moment I kind of have a date with an angry Swiss man."

Estonia stumbled, falling against the elevator doors, and fumbled with his glasses. "What on earth did you do to Switzerland?"

"Lichtenstein agreed to be the architect."

"Oh," said Estonia with a blink. "Well. Maybe I should have waited to see if you survive your encounter with him before I agreed. You can't exactly dream with a bullet in your skull."

America laughed, brushing away the concerns with a flip of his hand. "Relax, I know how to deal with Vash."

"I certainly hope you do. He's there on the stairwell, and he seems to be looking for you."

America turned. Switzerland was indeed on the stairwell, with a shotgun in one hand and a pistol in the other. "Well," he said. "No time like the present. Hey, Vash!"

The elevator arrived with a ding, and Estonia tumbled in, not interested in getting caught in the fallout. As the doors slid shut, he caught a final glance of America advancing on Switzerland with a friendly wave. Then there was a gunshot, and Estonia fell back against the rear of the elevator, wondering just what in hell he'd managed to get himself into this time.

**( - )**

"Right, then. As I was saying: today we start your basic training."

Lichtenstein nodded, falling into measured steps behind England. They were walking through a fashionable business building in what she recognized to be the modern side of London. It was sleek, it was shiny, and it was made primarily of windows, which were so clean that they might as well have not existed. People in suits, high-heels and ties – the projections of England's mind – bustled about, muttering things about memos and meetings. They hadn't noticed the two nations, and Lichtenstein rather hoped that they wouldn't. Ever.

"You've got a pretty good hang of the basic conjuration, it seems," England continued, neither noticing their surroundings nor turning to Lichtenstein. "But there are a number of tricks to keep in mind during your designs. After all, there are no limits in dreams, so you ought to make your environment work for you. That's why it's important to learn about paradoxes."

"I know about paradoxes," Lichtenstein said automatically. They were heading up a flight of stairs now, sleek things made of white metal and class that seemed almost to be suspended in mid-air.

England chuckled. "Logical paradoxes, you mean. Thought experiments, where the facts don't quite seem to agree with one another."

"Yes," said Lichtenstein, pleased that she didn't have to be schooled in something. "Like Locke's socks, or Schrodinger's cat."

"Indeed." England nodded approvingly and advanced up the stairs, the hollow heels of his slick black shoes clicking against the polished, eggshell-white metal stairs. They reached a platform, took a sharp right and continued up, perpendicular to their original flight. "That's a good start. Now, the next step is to apply those aspects to visual design."

Lichtenstein frowned at that, her lips quirking into an uncertain pout. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"Think of it as an optical illusion given form," England said, taking another sharp right on the next platform and continuing his way up. He paused a moment, three steps up, and dragged his heel across the third stair. It left a long black scuffmark on the formerly pristine white surface and earned him a nasty look from the guard stationed below them. England gave the man a cheeky wave and continued on his way, the lecture picking up without pause. "The trick is to make your impossible surroundings work to your advantage, to confuse and get the drop on those who would pursue you."

They took another sharp right, still going up. Lichtenstein gave a little sigh. And she'd been doing so well…

"I don't understand," she said softly. "Perhaps if you showed me and example?"

"Why, my dear, that's exactly what I've been doing."

Lichtenstein stopped, blinked and glanced around in confusion. England chuckled and retreated a few stairs to take her by the elbow, leading her further up the stairs like the loyal escorts in his Victorian movies. They reached another platform, which once again had a second flight of stairs rising up on the right.

"Look there," he said, nodding to an angle directly between the two branching flights.

Below them, the stairs that they had traveled before continued to rise, forming rectangular shape that continued to go up and up, with the landings in each corner. There was no sign of where the stairs began, where they'd entered, nor of where they ended. They simply continued to rise.

"This is the paradox of the Penrose Steps," England said with a pleasant chuckle, continuing their ascent. "A never-ending staircase. It's a classic trick, and very effective."

"But doesn't it leave you trapped as well?" Lichtenstein asked, increasing her speed to keep up with England as they rounded the corners much more quickly than before. "If the staircase never ends, then you can't get away."

"Ah, but you forget: this is your Dream, and you can change the rules however and whenever you wish it."

They'd returned to the England's scuff mark on the third step in the flight of ten. England led Lichtenstein to the platform above it, then placed a hand on her waist to hold her steady and motioned to the floor again. She peered over the edge.

The illusion was broken. The platform hung in the air without stairs leading to or from it. Far below, she saw an identical platform placed directly below this one – this place where they'd started. From the right angle, the Penrose steps would reappear; but for anyone else, there was only a drop.

"Rule Number One," England said with the matter-of-fact air of a school teacher. "Create paradoxes as you needed them, and when you don't need them anymore, allow reality to reassert itself. It's as simple as that, my dear. Simple as that."

**( - )**

Dodging bullets was not a simple thing, but America – as a nation who had never known a world without the bullet and had indeed won his own independence and many wars beside among a hail of them – was quite good at it, as one can be good at such things. It was serving him well enough now, as he darted through the cement-walled service hallways that wound behind the lavishly-decorated main halls. Switzerland hadn't hit him yet, though there had been some close calls.

The enraged little Swiss man snarled blasphemies, reloading his shotgun with a snap. "Where are you, you bastard?" he demanded of the air. "I know you're here, Jones! Come out and take what's coming to you."

America laughed, his back pressed against a cement support beam that served as both cover and concealment. "Dude, you suck at persuasion."

Switzerland fired off a shot in the vague direction of his voice. It left a spray of gunpowder across the wall behind the pillar. America didn't even flinch. "Seriously man, 'Come out here so I can shoot you'? What kind of diplomacy is that? And really, when you're the one shoot at me for no good reason."

"I have a damn good reason!" Switzerland snapped. His next shot was closer, exploding past America's left ear and causing him to flinch. He tumbled out of his hiding place, clutched at his ear and found himself staring up the muzzle Switzerland's luger. Switzerland narrowed his eyes and hissed, "You…You bastard. Dragging my sister into your stupid plans!"

"I didn't drag anybody," America said reasonably, holding up his hands in mock-surrender. "Lichtenstein came back on her own. She said she wanted to help, and she's real excited about it. You should be proud to have raised such a sweet and helpful girl."

Switzerland's steady hand wavered, his pistol bobbing from its target. America took the opportunity to knock it straight up and dodge away with a backwards somersault. The gun went off and the bullet ricocheted off the celling to bury itself in the wall.

A second later, America darted forward and disarmed Switzerland with a few twists of his wrist. The two guns clattered to the floor. America shoved Switzerland and the smaller man's shoulders hit the wall. Then America was on him again, pinning him against the cement in a way that was almost playful.

"Now then," he said, quirking his lips into a smile. "How about we talk, like reasonable adults, eh?"

Switzerland's scowl deepened. "Why the hell should I?"

"Because if we keep on fighting like this, all it's going to accomplish is upsetting Lichtenstein."

The scowl faltered. Switzerland's tense muscles went slack. His lips fell into an expression that, on anyone else, would be called a pout. "Fine," he huffed. "Talk."

America released the smaller man and straightened, but didn't step away. He wasn't going to give Switzerland a chance to go for the guns again. He did, however, fold his arms across his chest. "Right then," he said, his tone slow and diplomatic. "I didn't trick Lichtenstein. I made her an offer, and she took it, maybe because she's curious, or maybe because she wanted to help me out. One way or another, she's more than old enough to make decisions on her own. She's a big girl."

Switzerland's pout deepened and his eyebrows pushed together. "She's my sister."

"Then you understand where I'm coming from, with this project," America said, lowering his voice to match the other's. "I'm not doing this for me, Vash. It's for my brother. He's out there somewhere – alone, probably hurt, probably trapped and scared. This is the only chance I have to find him, and I need Lili's help to make it work. She understands that. You can too, right?"

Switzerland glared up at the taller man. His eyes gleamed with anger and frustration, but there was something else beneath it, something warmer. Empathy, perhaps.

He glared for almost a full minute, his lips twisted into a tiny knot below his nose. Then, finally, he said, "If you do this, I'm going too. To keep Lili safe."

"I'll agree to that," America said, running through the calculations in his head. With Switzerland, they'd have six going in, assuming that Japan remained awake as a monitor. It would be a chaotic trip, but they could manage it. At least, he was pretty sure.

Switzerland pressed on. "And you let me wake her up at the first sign of trouble, you understand?"

"_You can try," _America thought, but what he said to Switzerland was, "If Lili agrees to that, then I will too."

"Fine."

"Awesome."

With a huff, Switzerland pushed away from America and went to collect his guns. America sat on the stairs and grinned as the Swiss man bustled away, and it never crossed his mind to feel guilty about the information he'd held back.

**( - )**

From the endless staircase, they made their way to a straight hallway with half-a-dozen doors on each side, all of which looked completely identical. England seemed almost bored as he lead Lichtenstein to the center of the hall, motioning to the doors with long sweeps of his arms.

"This one is something of a recent classic. America is quite fond of it," he said, with a droll roll of his eyes. He opened the door to their left and stepped through, motioning for Lichtenstein to follow. They took two steps, closed the door behind them, and then stepped out again, from the door three rooms down the hall and on the other side.

Lichtenstein giggled, delighted by the trick. "It's like a cartoon!"

"Indeed," said England, stepped through the door ahead of them and reappearing at the other end of the hall. "It's a clever way to conceal your path, once you get the hang of it. The projections get so turned around in these things that they can't find their own heads, let alone yours."

Lichtenstein walked down the length of the hall, resting her hand on each doorknob and memorizing the way they felt against her bare fingers – cool, sleek and very real. Already, the wheels in her head were turning, planning out the mazes she would design for each level, piecing together the worlds…

"Now that you have a decent understanding of the paradoxes," said England, stepping through a certain door and beckoning her to follow. "It's time that we start on the heart of our operation. The key elements, if you will."

Lichtenstein followed him, stepping into a pleasant lecture hall that would not have seemed out of place in Cambridge or Oxford. England took a place at the dark green chalkboard and Lichtenstein, taking his cue, settled into the front row.

"There are two critical elements to keep in mind while working on your designs," England began, inscribing the chalkboard with the caricature of a bank safe. "The first is the safe. On each level, you will need to place a secure location – such as a safe, or a bank, or any sort of secret, hidden, locked location – in the heart of each maze."

"Okay," said Lichtenstein, already adjusting her mental plans. "And what do I put in it?"

"Nothing. Alfred's mind will do that on its own." England continued to draw on the board, almost as much to have something for his hands to do as to assist in his explanation. "When such a location appears in dreams, one's subconscious will automatically fill them with secrets. That's how Extraction works, you see."

"But how do we know Mister America's subconscious will put his memories in there?"

England smiled approvingly. "You already caught on to that. You really are a clever girl."

Lichtenstein flushed, her face turning as dark as her wine-colored dress. England leaned against the chalkboard and set down the chalk. "That, my dear, is where the second key element comes in," he said. "For that, we'll be using emotional cues."

He licked his finger and traced a maple leaf in the chalk dust that stained the board. He surrounded it with a rectangle, and then separated the rectangle into three horizontal bars. "Tell me, what does this bring to mind?"

"Mister Canada," said Lichtenstein with a nod. The tracing was crude, but it did resemble the Canadian flag.

"Precisely," England said, stepping away from the blackboard and dusting the chalk from his hands. "A nation's flag can work as an emotional cue, if a vague and generalized one. When placed strategically throughout the Dream, these cues will prompt America's mind to think of Canada which, in turn, will cause his subconscious to place his hidden memories of Canada into the safes."

"I see," said Lichtenstein.

"Of course, that's much too general to be of any use." England heaved a sigh, nodding to the crudly-drawn flag. "You'll be working with France for that. He knew Matthew better than anyone but Alfred himself and – as amazing as it seems – he is quite good at subtlety, when it's important. But don't you ever tell him or anyone else that I said that."

Lichtenstein giggled, pressing a hand over her mouth. "Of course."

A school bell, ancient and tin, clanged somewhere in the distance. England turned his head towards it, then tugged up his sleeve to check his watch. "My my my, is it time already?"

"Time?" Lichtenstein asked. The bell was still ringing and growing louder every second, making her head pound and her heart thump. "Time for what?"

"Time to wake up."

**( - )**

Lichtenstein opened her eyes. She was back in the hotel suite, but a haunting feeling nagged at the back of her mind. Was she awake? Really?

America was there, sitting in the armchair beside her and tugging off his tie. He looked tired, but satisfied. The snow outside the window behind him glowed orange in the faint sunset over Rome. "Welcome back," he said. "I trust everything went well."

"Naturally," said England, sitting up from the couch. He rolled his shoulders, plucked the IV out of his arm and said, "I could go for a spot of tea."

America rolled his eyes. He leaned over to gentle remove the IV from Lichtenstein's arm. He paused a moment, looking into her eyes as his hand lingered on the crook of her arm. His eyes were very blue, both bright and dark, and in the red light of the sunset they seemed almost violet. Lichtenstein's breath caught in her throat.

"You okay there, hun?" America asked, his tone gentle. "You look kinda freaked."

Lichtenstein swallowed. Her throat felt very dry. "Am I awake?"

America quirked his head. He leaned back in his chair and drew the double-headed silver dollar from his pocket. It spun into the air with a whirring song, like a tiny bell. He caught it in his palm and pressed it into the back of his other hand. George Washington gazed up at them both.

"Well, I'm awake," he concluded, pocketing the coin. "That oughta mean that you are too."

Lichtenstein relaxed.

"We really should get you a totem prepared," England said, bustling from the couch to the silver tea-set that sat on the bedside table. "Disorientation among dream levels can be dangerous."

"Mm," said America, almost agreeably. "We can worry about that tomorrow."

Tomorrow. There would be weeks' worth of tomorrows from now on. Tomorrows full of lessons, of training, of plans; full of questions, of mazes, of paradoxes; full of dreams. Rising from her chair to unsteady feet, Lichtenstein wondered if she would be up for it all.

She supposed she would just have to wait and find out.

_**TBC…**_


End file.
